all the world's a stage
by rainmcfae
Summary: ...and all the men and women merely players." A Hetalia 100 themes challenge. Now playing: four - dark ;; in which little Alfred is afraid of the dark.
1. introduction

**theme;;** one - introduction  
><strong>genre;; <strong>humor  
><strong>characters;;<strong> japan, prussia, gilbird, pochi  
><strong>pairings;;<strong> none (unless you're into, like, prussia/japan or something, in which case you might be able to see that if you stand on your head, close one eye, and squint)  
><strong>rating;;<strong> k

* * *

><p>"Ano…are you sure this is a good idea, Prussia-kun?"<p>

Japan stared as said albino nation, who was currently visiting from Germany, crouched in front of his dog Pochi, his hand extended. It would look like Prussia was trying to give Pochi a treat, except in his hand was Gilbird, so that was probably not the case. In fact, Prussia was actually trying to introduce Gilbird to the fluffy dog.

"Don't worry Japan! Gilbird's totally awesome and your puffy puppy's pretty awesome too so they'll totally get along awesomely!"

Japan just stood there, watching, although he really was slightly worried. Pochi was a nice dog, but Gilbird was small and possibly food-like. And he had a feeling their "mutual awesomeness" would not prevent the little dog from eating the littler bird if he was hungry. Which he may have been, because Japan hadn't exactly had time to feed him this morning. Oops.

But at the moment, it seemed the two animals were getting along fine, which meant they were basically staring at each other unmovingly. But then, Gilbird decided to peck Pochi's nose.

This would not have been so bad, except Pochi decided to respond by doing what Japan had been dreading - he ate Gilbird.

Prussia and Japan (and possibly Gilbird) screamed.

Thankfully, Pochi apparently did not _actually_ eat Gilbird, because the small fluffy chick was quickly spit out. Prussia immediately snatched up his precious companion, trying to wipe the dog spit off the yellow feathers and comforting the traumatized bird at the same time, while Pochi stood hacking up downy feathers. Japan, his face burning red, head bowed, apologized profusely, and even as Prussia was frantically dealing with Gilbird, he assured Japan that it was fine, it wasn't his fault, and he was "still awesome, even though his dog was totally _not_."

Still, needless to say, Prussia did not bring Gilbird on his next visit.

* * *

><p><strong>note;; <strong>so i decided to take up this 100 themes challenge, but there's no way i can write 100 even remotely long one-shots, so instead i'm writing these short little drabbles.

_very_ short little drabbles ._. orz;;;

about this one: i'm not really sure if this fits the theme - it's, like, prussia _introducing_ gilbird and pochi to each other? also, apparently, prussia and japan are really close (or at least hetalia shoutwiki says so 8D), which is why japan calls him "prussia-kun" rather than "prussia-san"

i think i'm going to try and post these up in order, but i don't actually _work _on them in order, because ideas for certain themes come faster than others. i'll be posting up all the 100 themes challenges i do as soon as i do them, regardless of order, on my tumblr (link in my profile). currently, i have about four or five themes already posted up there.

i'll also be changing the genre and character tags to fit the most recent themefic as i upload them.

reviews make me happppy~ :3


	2. love

**theme;; **two – love  
><strong>genre;; <strong>romance/angst  
><strong>characters;; <strong>france, jeanne d'arc, england  
><strong>parings;; <strong>one-sided-france/jeanne  
><strong>rating;; <strong>k+ for death  
><strong>note;; <strong>all dialogue is in _italics _instead of quotation marks. hopefully it isn't too hard to tell what's dialogue and what's not, but...yeah

* * *

><p>France has loved many, many people throughout the years, but he will always remember the first he <em>truly<em> loved – a girl with God in her mind and fire in her heart.

He meets her in the midst of the Hundred Years' War, when England is destroying his land and his pride. He remembers sulking, his "king," Charles VII, on a throne beside him, when someone enters and informs the king that a young girl named Jeanne d'Arc had arrived and wished to speak to him. At the mention of a girl, France immediately sits up straight and beams – but then Charles just scowls and snaps that he has no time to listen to some little girl. Appalled, France pleads for him to let her in, and finally Charles relents.

When the girl was brought in, France could honestly say that he was not impressed, not in the least. In fact, he deflated visibly and went back to sulking. After all, this girl barely looked like a girl – she was dressed in men's clothing, and she was covered with dirt and grime. She was obviously not of very high status – a peasant's daughter, most likely.

But then she began to speak, speak of God and saints and visions of victory, and France begins to pay a little more attention, because there is a sort of fire in her quiet voice, a sort of determination, and though she is respectful, she is almost forceful, and he cannot help but admire this girl with the bravery of a man. She asks for the king to allow her to travel with the army, to fight with them, and perhaps he is impressed, or perhaps he is desperate, but whatever the reason is he agrees.

Jeanne smiles and assures the king he will not regret this, that she will make him proud, that she will make France proud, and France cannot help but feel a warm happiness in his heart (_the first bit of happiness he has felt in years_), and he longs to say that she already has.

* * *

><p>The next time he sees her, she is covered with dirt and wounds and fresh scars, but she is triumphant, and he does not think he has ever been so incredibly proud.<p>

He has heard that she had liberated Orléans, and he smiles charmingly and congratulates her. She looks slightly puzzled but accepts the praise humbly, before she asks almost sheepishly, _I'm sorry, have I met you before? You look so familiar_.

He laughs lightly in response, then smiles as he replies, _Non, I do not believe we have met formally. But I was there the day you went to talk to the king. My name is France – but please, do call me Francis_.

She looks only slightly surprised at his name, and she smiles back as she says, _It is a pleasure to meet you, Francis_.

_The pleasure is all mine_, he replies almost teasingly, but not really – because it is true, it really is such a pleasure to meet this girl, this girl who is so young yet so, so brave.

He sees her a couple more times, between the battles she leads and almost always wins, and they talk and laugh and cry together and he cannot help but feel like he is falling in love.

* * *

><p>She is going to Compiègne soon, she tells him, as they are sitting together in a meadow one day. He nods and tells her that he is sure she will do wonderfully, but even though what he says is true, what he really wants to tell her is to not go, to stay with him in this beautiful meadow and spend their days in carefree happiness. But he knows that he cannot, that she is born to fight, that God has told her to fight, and that is what she must do.<p>

_I will miss you_, Francis, she admits softly as she looks up to the sky, a light frown on her face, and he cannot help but feel bad, as if it is his fault she is sad (_which, in a way, it is_).

_I will miss you, too, mon cher_, he replies, but he tries to manage a smile at her. _But we will see each other again soon, oui_?

She laughs lightly and turns to give him a small smile, and it is so heartbreakingly beautiful that France can feel his heart flutter as he wonders how he could have thought her anything but lovely (_because not only is she lovely on the outside, she has the most pure, beautiful soul that he has ever seen_). _I suppose we will_.

Yet the words sound almost hesitant and sad, and he wonders if there is something she is keeping from him – but he does not get a chance to ask, because she says quietly, _I am fighting for you, you know_. _For you and for God_.

And he is so touched that he cannot resist lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to it softly – not teasingly or flirtatiously, like he has always done to others, but with genuine affection and gratitude and _love_. _I know, mon cher_, he whispers in response. _And I am forever thankful_.

She gives him the most tender of smiles before she slowly takes her hand away and stands. _I should go_, she says apologetically. _I need to prepare for my departure_.

He nods and stands as well, and says that he understands, and she hesitates for only a moment before she pulls him into a warm embrace. He is shocked, but he recovers his composure and he returns the gesture, burying his nose in her hair as he tries to memorize her scent of forests and open plains and freedom. But then she pulls away and gives him a quick smile before she turns to depart, and he is left to stand there as she walks away. He wants to yell to her, to tell her that he loves her, but he holds back – because he knows, knows that her first and only love is to God.

So he only watches as she mounts her horse and offers him one last grin and a wave of goodbye before she rides away into the horizon.

It is the last time he ever sees that beautiful, beautiful smile.

* * *

><p><em>You do not have to do this, Angleterre<em>.

France glares at his enemy of the last ninety-four years, feels a hatred for him that he has never felt before. England merely scowls back, and France cannot help but wonder where that sweet little child he once knew has gone.

_Yes, I do_, he replies, his voice haughty, and it only makes France want to punch him and kick him and beat him into a pulp. _She is an enemy, not to mention a __**heretic**_.

_She is __**not**_, France snaps back angrily, sapphire eyes burning with barely contained rage. _She speaks to God – she is practically a saint! And mon Dieu Angleterre – she is only nineteen! Barely a woman! You would kill a young woman, England? What kind of monster are you?_

_She is a __**heretic**__, _England repeats, angry. _**She**__ is the monster, she deserves to die-_

And France cannot restrain himself any longer, and he slaps England across the face before neither of them has the chance to comprehend what he is doing. They are both shocked for a moment, but France does not apologize, and the look on his face only gets darker (_because he deserved it, that scoundrel, that __**murderer**_) as he turns and walks away.

But that does not stop England, does not stop him from tying Jeanne, brave, beautiful Jeanne, to the stake, does not stop him from lighting the fire at its base. And France can only cry as his Jeanne, his friend, his savior, his angel, his love, is consumed by the flames.

* * *

><p>He visits Compiègne every year on that tragic day, and it is where England finds him, standing directly in front of the spot where his first true love was burned at the stake (<em>because no matter how many years pass, he will always, always remember that exact spot<em>). England only stands and stares for a few long moments, the guilt clenching at his heart, before France asks, _What are you doing here, Angleterre?_

England opens his mouth to reply, but he finds he cannot find the right words to explain, because he does not _know_ why he is here – he just felt that he had to be. So he gives up on trying to explain, and he whispers, _I'm sorry._

They are silent for a moment, and France does not turn around, even when he replies quietly, _It was not your fault_. And something about the words is sincere, even beneath the layers of hurt and sadness and regret, because France has forgiven him a long time ago, because they are nations, bound by the actions of their people, because those were violent, hateful times – but that does not mean it hurts any less.

_You loved her, didn't you?_ England dares to ask after a pause, and France almost laughs.

_Of course_. He cannot stop the bitterness from creeping into his tone, and England flinches behind him.

_Francis, I'm sorry, I truly am, if I could go back and change things-_

_Stop apologizing_, France snaps, and England falls silent, because it is rare for France to show such real anger. _It was a long time ago_, he continues, softer this time. _I have moved on-_

-except they both know that is a lie, because France will never truly move on.

Because no matter how many years pass, he will always love the girl with God in her mind and fire in her heart.

* * *

><p><strong>note;; <strong>this is SO LONG (for me, at least, lol). i can't even really call it a drabble, i don't think ._.

quite honestly, i did not plan on writing this pairing for love (i was going to write a rochu, since they're my otp), but then school started and i read about the hundred years' war and this begged to be written ._. also, i love france/jeanne, even if it is such an inevitably tragic pairing.

i'm not all that happy with this, because i feel like it's not as emotional and deep as it should be and some parts seem almost awkward-ish? maybe i'll go back and fix it later, but i don't really want to right now. also, the reason all dialogue is in italics instead of quotation marks is because i kinda felt like quotation marks would disturb the flow/mood, but if it's too hard to read i can always change it to quotation marks.

also, this is probably one of the darker things i've written? it's not exactly happy, that's for sure, but i really don't think you can write an extremely happy fic with this pairing.

next two themes (light and dark) are both america and england-centric, although neither of them are really america/england. i already have them written, but i think i'll wait until tomorrow to post them up. however, as always, those two (and many others) are already up on my tumblr, so if you want to read them go to my profile and click the link.

reviews make me happy~ :3


	3. light

**theme;; **three – light

**genre;; **humor

**characters;; **america, england

**pairings;; **america/england, if you want to interpret it as such

**rating;; **t for the use of one single cuss word

* * *

><p>"Igggggggyyyyyyy."<p>

"What do you want, you git?"

"That's not a very nice thing to say, to someone who's dying."

"You're not dying, you stupid wanker. You have a cold."

"You're _wrong_, Iggy! I'm totally dying. Hell, I think I can see the light…"

"Stop being a ridiculous child."

"The light, Iggy! I see the light!"

"Belt up! Here, if you're so sick, drink some of this chicken soup. It'll help you feel better."

"…Did you make it?"

"Yes."

"…I think I'll take my chances with the light."

* * *

><p><strong>note;; <strong>belt up means shut up in british slang, apparently. anyway, this is short and stupid, but I wanted to give pure dialogue a try. x3

reviews make me happy~ :3


	4. dark

**theme;; **four - dark  
><strong>genre;; <strong>humor/fluff/family  
><strong>characters;; <strong>chibiamerica, england  
><strong>pairings;;<strong> none  
><strong>rating;; <strong>k  
><strong>warning;; <strong>au, for the sole reason that nightlights wouldn't have existed when america was a wee little child. that's why i'm not using their country names. it's a little ambiguous what they are in regards to each other (brothers with england being the older caretaker or father/son) because i couldn't decide, so yeah.

* * *

><p>Arthur had just been finishing the second chapter in a book when he noticed Alfred standing at his bedroom door clutching a stuffed bunny to his chest.<p>

Blinking once to confirm that the young five-year-old was, in fact, there and not in bed like he was supposed to be, the British man frowned. Closing his book and placing it on his bedside table, he asked, "Alfred, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed. It's very late."

The little boy shifted on his feet, subtly shifting his stuffed companion up to the bottom of his face and mumbling something into it. Arthur frowned and chided the boy firmly but gently.

"Alfred, get that stuffed rabbit away from your face, please, I can't hear a word you're saying."

Slowly, grudgingly, the child lowered the toy and muttered quietly, "...'m scared of the dark."

Arthur blinked, for a moment not sure if he'd heard right, and then - he couldn't help it - he laughed. He immediately tried to stifle it, but the idea of Alfred - brash, confident, Alfred - being afraid of the dark was undeniably amusing.

The little boy scowled at Arthur's laughter, his face going red with embarrassment as he shouted, "Stop laughing, you jerk! It's not funny!"

Arthur's chuckles slowly died down (with much effort) as he tried to placate the peeved Alfred. "My apologizes, Alfred. Now do stop shouting, lad, you're going to wake Matthew."

Alfred huffed angrily, crossing his arms and looking away with a pout, and Arthur couldn't help but smile. "Well...if you're scared of the dark, I suppose I can let you sleep here for the night. Does that sound good, Alfred?"

For a moment there was no response, and then Alfred looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eye before nodding quickly. Arthur chuckled and shifted to one side of his bed before lifting the covers. Without a moment of hesitation, the little boy raced across the room and climbed into the bed, hugging both his bunny and Arthur's waist tightly. Smiling, Arthur lowered the blanket over the young boy before patting his blond hair gently.

"Good night, lad."

"...G'night Arthur."

That night, Arthur learned that Alfred was not a sound sleeper. At all. He woke from the very few hours of sleep he got - the rest were taken away by Alfred's rather distracting kicking - hanging halfway off the bed's edge; somehow, even with his tiny, little boy body, Alfred managed to hog the entire bed. He decided that cute and terrified as Alfred was, he was never letting the boy sleep with him again.

Immediately after breakfast, Arthur went out and bought a nightlight.


End file.
